Funny that the thing I got from last week’s usrah among other things was this:

 

the farthest thing in life is?

our past.

 

And funny how not true I think it is.

 

Our past is the closest thing to us, that’s how it has always been. Whether I want it or not, it’s there. Nothing I do would make it go away. It’s there, it’s near yet there’s nothing that could be done.

 

That’s how it was. That’s how it is now. That’s how it will always be.

Frozen by time. Wrapped by crystals of ice so I could still see it everyday but not touch, not alter. Every bit would still stay the same.

 

No matter how many times I’ve waved goodbye, I still find myself greeting it again after some time.

No matter how many times I’ve grieved and cried over it, I still find the hurt unhealed.

No matter how many times I’ve convinced myself that I’m already on the other side of the road, I still find myself stuck in the middle.

No matter how much I look forward to the future, I still look back.

And every time, the same coldness greets.

 

The choices I’ve made. Ruled by the logic behind it, the mind that was in control, and the emotion supressed. The theoritical idea of right and wrong.

 

The irony of the whole thing is laughable. 

 

Too ugly to remember yet too beautiful to forget.

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